Читать книгу: «Moonrise»

Chapter One

December 1665

“Don’t be such a stick, Jack Fairfax,” Sarah said with a laugh, tumbling her brother off the end of the settle. He landed in a heap in the rushes and groaned a protest. Sarah jumped on top of him, her knees gouging his stomach and holding him pinned beneath her.

“Just look at this,” Sarah said triumphantly. One by one she began pulling jewels from inside a knotted kerchief and dropping them on Jack’s chest, where they slithered in glittery trails to the ground. “It’s a bloody fortune.”

“Don’t swear, Sarah,” Jack said gravely. At eighteen, his arms already had the lean muscles of early manhood. His strength was far greater than that of his sister, and he pushed her off him with rough gentleness. “Father will be resting uneasy in his grave to hear you talk so,” he chided as he sat up beside her.

Sarah frowned. “Don’t speak to me of Father,” she said curtly. Then in a quicksilver change of mood she reached out to give Jack an exuberant hug. “All this from that fat old bishop. Who’d have thought the old toad would have such a hoard stashed away beneath that big belly?”

“We shouldn’t have taken it.”

Sarah stared at him in amazement. “Shouldn’t have taken it? What are you thinking of? This will feed our families for the rest of the winter.”

Jack shook his head. “There’ll be trouble to pay, robbing a cleric.”

“Oh, pooh. A bishop’s not a cleric. He’s a lackey of the king who cares more for his mistresses and his flagons of ale than for the Bible.”

“You don’t know that, Sarah. He may have been a godly man.”

“Parson Hollander is a godly man, not that old windbag we robbed last night.” Sarah’s gray eyes and honey brown hair made her look deceptively plain at times, especially against the background of the simple Puritan garb she still favored. But at the moment her hair had pulled loose from its bindings and framed her face in a disheveled golden cloud. Her eyes danced and her flawless cheeks were flushed with her latest success. Even Jack had to admit that he had never seen beauty equal to hers.

He gave a deep sigh. Though Sarah was the older by almost five years, she was nevertheless his sister and it was his duty to be her protector. But how did one protect a maiden who could wield a sword and ride a horse better than any member of the king’s guard? And how did one shelter the sensibilities of a young woman who had seen her father’s head parted from his body?

He picked up a gold necklace set with amethyst. “These are very fine. Recognizable. Will Parson Hollander be able to sell them?”

Sarah shrugged without concern. “His Dutch contacts will take anything and dispose of it abroad,” she said. “And the good people of Wiggleston will eat well this winter, in spite of the king’s new taxes.”

Jack shook his head. “We’re at war with the Dutch these days, Sarah. ‘Tis sheer folly to do business with them.”

Sarah picked the last of the jewels out of the rushes, then jumped to her feet. “The king’s too busy playing with his mistresses to wage a real war.”

Jack stood up more slowly. “The war’s real enough, believe me.” His handsome young face was sober. “I might have to go fight in it myself one of these days. Even Uncle Thomas might be called.”

Sarah turned to him, her expression furious. “Never! Charles Stuart has taken enough from this family. You’ll walk over my grave before you’ll ever fight for him.”

Jack smiled in spite of himself. If there was one sight more beautiful than his sister excited, it was his sister angry. “Uncle Thomas is one of the finest generals England has,” he reminded her mildly.

Sarah’s voice was steady, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the kerchief full of jewels as though it were King Charles’s neck. “Uncle Thomas and General Monck handed Charles Stuart back his throne on a silver platter, and he repaid them by executing some of the finest men in the land, including our own father, in case I have to remind you, Jack Fairfax.”

Jack knew that his sister’s opinions on the subject were somewhat unfair. It was true that the loss of their father had been almost beyond bearing. But John Fairfax had signed his own death warrant long ago when he put his signature on the document condemning the king’s father, Charles I. In reality, the executions after the Restoration had been relatively few, the new king proving himself to be more interested in the entertainments of the new court than in revenge and bloodletting.

“And as for Uncle Thomas,” Sarah continued, “he will do as he pleases, and shall the rest of his life. The king can’t afford to offend him. It’s as simple as that.”

She relaxed her death grip on the kerchief and let out a tense breath. “So no more talk of war, my dearest brother.” She hefted the kerchief in her hand and gave a grim, satisfied smile. “Come on, let’s go show the good parson this latest evidence of the Lord’s bounty.”

* * *

“I can’t afford to offend Thomas Fairfax, it’s as simple as that.” King Charles stretched out his long legs and looked up at the tall, scowling man standing stiffly in front of him. “Sit down, Anthony, you’re making me tired.”

The newly appointed Baron Rutledge grudgingly sat in a small gilt chair near the king’s bed. The royal apartments at Oxford were not as sumptuous as Whitehall, but they were certainly much more luxurious than many of the places Anthony had stayed with Charles Stuart during the long years of exile. And at least they were away from the dreadful plague that had been ravaging London these past weeks. The death toll was up to a thousand poor wretches a day, and the haunting cry of “Bring out your dead!” echoed incessantly throughout the crowded streets of the old City.

By moving first to Salisbury, then Oxford, the court had managed to isolate itself from the devastation. Charles and his courtiers played their games and vied with one another for the most elaborate costumes and hairstyles with only an occasional pang for the sufferings of those left back in London.

“I can’t believe you want to send me to the wilds of Yorkshire just when the war is heating up...sire,” he added with somewhat belated deference.

Charles smiled. “Anthony, my friend, I have all kinds of courtiers whom I can put to captaining a ship against my foreign enemies, but I have only a few whom I can trust to deal with the enemies from within.”

“Are you saying that General Fairfax is your enemy?” Anthony looked perplexed. The famous old soldier had been living in what appeared to be peaceful retirement these past three or four years.

Charles shook his head, his elaborate lovelocks brushing along the tops of his shoulders. “I fervently hope not. But there’s been trouble in the area. The people there haven’t accepted back the church, and they don’t want to pay the new taxes.”

“Very seldom do people welcome new taxes, sire,” Anthony said dryly. Especially, he refrained from adding, when they know they will likely be spent to buy a new carriage for the king’s latest mistress.

“And there’s another problem,” the king continued, ignoring Anthony’s comment. “There have been robberies...several. It seems a masked highwayman has been assaulting the gentry. The villagers are making him into some kind of hero. They say he strikes with the full moon. Last month the Bishop of Lackdale was robbed of a small fortune that he had collected to refurbish the church.”

“To refurbish the size of his girth is more likely,” Anthony grumbled.

Charles laughed. “Impious as usual. Someday your irreverence will catch up to you, my friend.”

Anthony gave one of the slow, lazy smiles that had won him more conquests than any man at court except the king. “I fully intend to repent on my deathbed, your majesty.”

Charles impatiently waved away the formal address. He and Anthony had been in too many escapades across the length of Europe to become sudden observers of proprieties. “Will you do it, Anthony?” he asked in a cajoling tone that still managed to sound regal. “Will you go to Yorkshire and find out the truth?”

Anthony made one last attempt at refusal. “I’ve ever been better at fighting than at intrigue, sire. Spying is not to my taste.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Anthony. It’s not really spying.... Just consider that you’re doing me a favor.”

“A royal favor.” Anthony’s tone was of one who knew he had little choice in the matter. His dark eyes looked directly into the king’s. There had been times, in earlier days, when they had been mistaken for brothers. Both were tall and dark complected. Both had an innate charm that brought people effortlessly under their spell. But whereas Anthony, five years the younger, had retained his lean form and high energy, the king had mellowed in the four and a half years since the Republican generals had given him back his throne. His face was softer, and he preferred the company of his ladies to sparring with his courtiers.

Charles sighed. “Not a royal favor. A personal favor. If Fairfax is working against me, I need to know immediately. On the other hand, if he’s still loyal, I don’t want to risk his anger by bearing down too hard on the dissenters there.”

“And what about your moonlight marauder?”

“He’s just what we don’t need at the moment—some kind of romantic hero for the masses, demonstrating once again the age-old disparity between rich and poor. Which was not, by the way, invented by my ministers, no matter what the opposition might say.”

The king boosted himself off the high bed and started to pace the room, warming to one of his favorite topics. “Oddsfish, I’ve been poor myself, you know. I’ve passed hunger and thirst and...”

“Deprivation,” Anthony filled in obligingly. Over the years the script of Charles’s adventures in exile had become more elaborated than one of Master Dryden’s productions at Drury Lane.

“Yes, deprivation,” Charles continued. “No one can say that I don’t understand my people.”

Gently Anthony tried to shift back to the topic at hand. “You were saying, sire, about the Yorkshire highwayman...?”

Charles stopped in midstride, his mind pulled back to the present. “Yes, blast it. Find the man, Anthony. Shoot him or hang him—I don’t care what you do—just get rid of him.”

Anthony gave a short laugh. “At least my mission won’t be without some sport.”

* * *

The shimmery gray silk of Sarah’s dress matched exactly the cold glitter of her eyes. “I don’t care what my uncle ordered,” she said with controlled fury. “No so-called Surveyor of the Royal Stables is coming anywhere near Brigand. That horse is mine. He doesn’t belong to the Fairfax stables.”

The old servant shrugged and pulled on his cap. “Begging yer pardon, mistress, but I believe the gentleman is already down there inspecting the lot of them. Brigand along with all the rest.”

Sarah jumped to her feet and took off at a run down the path toward the stables. She was breathless by the time she reached the old stone structure, and took a minute to compose herself. She could already picture the scene. One of Charles’s foppish cavaliers mincing along through the muck of the stable in high heels, ribbons adorning his artificially curled lovelocks. And putting his hands on her beloved horse. It was not to be borne. Her anger building, she stepped over the top of the wooden sty and tugged with all her might on the stable door. It swung open with a crash.

In the darkened interior of the barn, two men straightened up from their perusal of the foreleg of one of her uncle’s prized stallions.

“It’s my niece,” she heard her uncle say to the other man. Then he called to her, “Sarah, come in and join us.”

Slowly Sarah walked along the stalls, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. She could now see that the man beside her uncle was, at least, no fop. Taller than her brother, Jack, and handsomely built, he needed no high heels to emphasize his stature. Instead of the lace and furbelows understood to be de rigueur at court functions these days, he wore a leather jerkin over a simple, but fine, linen blouse and breeches that molded well-muscled thighs.

Her uncle reached out and took her hand as she drew near. “My dear, this is Baron Anthony Rutledge. The king has honored us by sending Lord Rutledge to review our horses as possible candidates for the royal stable.”

Sarah swallowed her angry words as her eyes met the newcomer’s. They were magnetic, almost black in color...and, to her dismay, showed a keen intelligence. Her own quick mind did a short reprise of the situation. The only thing worse than a visit from a foolish representative of the king would be a visit from a king’s man with wits to challenge her own.

“Sarah?” her uncle prompted.

She lowered her eyes from the baron’s dark gaze and gave a demure curtsy. “How d’ye do,” she murmured.

When she looked up at him again, his expression had become distinctly predatory. A slight smile curved his lips. Inexplicably, Sarah felt herself growing warm.

“I’m at your service, mistress.” The words were correct, but they were spoken in a low, caressing tone that made Sarah’s toes want to curl up inside her slippers. She glanced quickly at her uncle, but he was smiling congenially as if nothing untoward were occurring.

Perhaps she was imagining things, Sarah told herself. Since her uncle’s retirement from public life, they did not receive many visitors at Leasworth. She was sadly out of touch with society these days. For all she knew it might be normal for a court gentleman to devour a lady with a mere gaze, as their visitor was doing at this very moment. Or perhaps it was just that the day was unseasonably hot.

She took a step backward.

“Sarah is the best horsewoman in the shire,” Uncle Thomas said fondly.

One of the baron’s dark eyebrows lifted in an expression that managed to combine interest with amusement. “Is that so? I would be happy to see an example of such prowess.”

Sarah shook her head and tried to clear her mind. Where were her wits? she asked herself angrily. She needed to think what to do with this unwelcome intruder. The last thing she needed was a representative from the king hanging around and discovering the natural riding skills she had inherited from her father. And what about Jack? Since her father’s death four years ago, she had fiercely protected her younger brother, trying to keep him from any notice by the king. Though King Charles had said the punishments would end with the executions of those responsible for his father’s murder, Sarah had never stopped worrying that the king’s vengeance could somehow extend to the families of the convicted men. “I fear my uncle exaggerates,” she said finally.

“I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to judge for myself.”

His gaze had gone from her face to linger briefly on the close-fitting silk of her bodice, then to her narrow waist and the gentle flare of her hips. Sarah felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your business here, Lord Rutledge. I’ll just go up to the house and inform the cook about the midday meal. You will be staying to eat with us?”

“I’ll be here well beyond that,” Anthony said with another devastating smile. “Your uncle has graciously invited me to stay at Leasworth while I view some stock in the area.”

Sarah gave a faltering smile in reply. “We’re honored to have you, of course. If you’ll excuse me...”

She backed up another step, then another, then stumbled as her foot hit a hay rake. In an instant the baron was beside her, supporting her with one strong arm around her back and another at her right elbow. “Are you all right, mistress?” he asked softly, his face just inches from hers.

She could see the black stubble along the lean line of his jaw. A small cleft parted his chin. Through the thin silk of her dress, she felt the solid hardness of the muscles of his arm. She took an uneven breath. No, this man was definitely not one of the soft court dandies she had heard about. It was time to gather her wits about her.

“Thank you, my lord. How clumsy of me.” Deliberately she put a hand on his chest. “I do believe you saved me from a nasty fall.” She looked around her with distaste and wrinkled her nose. “And in all this filth. What a dreadful thought.”

Anthony felt her soften in his arms and gave a satisfied smile. Perhaps his stay in Yorkshire wouldn’t be so dull after all. This slender beauty would be a conquest worthy of his expertise. He looked down to where her soft white hand rested against the leather of his jerkin. The lass seemed amenable, at least. He wondered how closely her uncle guarded her virtue. He knew that many country folk had kept more of the old standards from the Puritan days of the Republic than had the people in London. As far as Charles’s court was concerned, virtue had never been a high priority, even during the days of exile in Europe.

“Dreadful, indeed,” he agreed pleasantly. “Would you like me to escort you back to the house...to be sure there are no further mishaps?”

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you so much.” Sarah’s smile was sweet. Anthony’s eyes were drawn to her full lips, which were naturally pink and moist without, he was sure, any of the paints used by all the ladies at court these days—and some of the men. He felt his blood quicken.

“I will look forward to seeing you at dinner, then.” He lifted her hand from his jacket and brought it slowly to his lips.

Sarah’s stomach jumped at the touch of his warm mouth. But at the same time, she immediately thought of the calluses on her palms, which told of endless hours of chafing against leather reins. She smiled at the baron through her long lashes, hoping he wouldn’t notice the abrupt way she pulled her hand away from his.

“Yes, until dinner,” she said hastily. Then she turned to leave before this unwanted visitor had her in a complete dither.

She berated herself for her foolishness all the way back to the manor house. She had always prided herself on her cool head. When Jack would get into a lather over some slight hitch in one of their midnight forays, she would be the one to stay calm and collected. Now suddenly the presence of a handsome king’s man had her feeling like a witless dairy maid.

The best thing would be for both her and Jack to stay out of the way as much as possible while the gentleman was here. That would be no problem at all for her brother, whose comings and goings were little noted by the other members of the household. But in the past couple of years her widowed uncle had come to rely more and more on Sarah as mistress of the house. There was no way she could escape dining with their guest.

She rubbed her telltale palms together and wondered if Baron Rutledge had noted them. She was sure that at court a lady would rather be caught naked than riding without gloves, but Sarah was unaccustomed to such refinements. She had been raised in a thoroughly male household. Her mother had died giving birth to Jack, and John Fairfax had been too involved in his Puritanism and his politics to worry about finding a replacement.

Well, Sarah said to herself resolutely, if Lord Rutledge were to be so ungentlemanly as to comment on her roughened hands, she would merely tell him that life in Yorkshire was not as soft as in the palaces of London. Here in the country ladies worked rather than whiling away their days stitching fine tapestries or planning elaborate masques.

She was so lost in her own arguments that she almost missed seeing Jack skirt around the crumbling ruins of an old enclosing wall and make his way toward the stables. At her call he detoured in her direction.

“Have you just come from the horses, Sarah?” he asked eagerly. “I’ve heard there’s a royal surveyor visiting from the king.” His smile died as he took in Sarah’s sober face. “What’s the matter?”

Sarah motioned with one hand for him to lower his voice. “You heard right. There’s a representative from the king. And you’re not going anywhere near him.”

“Is he very grand, Sarah? Are his clothes as magnificent as they say?” Her brother’s eagerness was unabated.